Sweet Ache

by K. Bromberg

  “What? What did I miss?” A voice shouts from down the hall followed by the appearance of a tall, athletic blond guy, one arm sleeved, gauges in his ears, confused look on his face.

  “Were you recording that?” Hawkin asks as the guys all stand still and stare at him, anticipation on their faces.

  “Yeah, why?”

  The guys start their celebration again, including the newcomer this time around. Finally and it’s about fucking time is murmured between them as I stand there and put the pieces in place.

  Gizmo looks over and lifts his chin. “Been working on that song for four months. Couldn’t get it right. We were ready to scrap it from the album—and who the fuck knew that it would come together like that from Rocket fiddling around by himself in the studio.”

  “Ha. He’s used to fiddling by himself, just not with a guitar,” Vince quips.

  I raise my eyebrows, excited to be a part of what they’re creating here, the lyrics on repeat through my head for more reasons than how perfectly they complete the song. I feel like Hawke was talking to me, asking me, and I settle into the feelings they invoke within me.

  Before I realize it, Hawkin’s at my side, hand on my elbow as he leads me from the kitchen. His touch on my skin is intoxicating, his murmur in my ear telling me “Let’s go,” even more so.

  We clear the doorway and he tugs on my arm so that our bodies crash into each other’s the same time our mouths do. And hell yes the kiss on the porch was hotter than hell but this one is scorching. I don’t know if it’s the euphoric adrenaline of figuring out the song but Hawkin is a man taking what he wants and thank God he wants me.

  His hands fist in my clothing and the kiss turns close to bruising as our bodies remain pressed and grinding into each other. I know we’re at risk of being caught by the rest of the band, but Hawkin is kissing me like he sings … with a little bit of roughness to his smooth and fuck if I don’t love the hard edge.

  “Upstairs,” he pants, hand in my hair, mouth moving down the line of my neck.

  “Yes.” There is no other response to his command. No concern that he’s a player because all I can think about is him and me. Naked. Moving. Entangled. Breathless.

  My body responds to his body’s nonverbal commands. An intimate reaction to his every action, wanting more, needing more of everything he’s giving me.

  My back bumps into the banister of the staircase as we move clumsily up the stairs. We both laugh at our impeded progress between urgent kisses and desperate gropes. I pull back and open my eyes to look at where we are going, and I gasp in shock when I lock eyes with Hunter.

  “Ahhh!” The sound bursts out of me and Hawkin jolts in reaction. He whirls around as a slow, smarmy smirk curls up the corner of his brother’s mouth.

  “What the fuck dude?” Hawkin’s hands are off me in a flash as he whirls around to face him, the desire raging between us moments ago converting to disappointed anger. And I know Hawke’s mad, I just can’t figure out if he’s pissed because his brother interrupted us or because he lied and took off with his car. Pride has me wanting to think one thing but reason has me knowing it’s another.

  Hunter lifts his hands up in front of him. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt, really.” His mouth says the words but his eyes say something different. “I was just bringing your keys to you.”

  “What’s going on?” Vince comes through the kitchen door and stops when he sees Hunter. The look that passes between the two of them is less than friendly.

  Hunter ignores Vince’s question and lifts his chin my direction. “So this is more than just you being hot for teacher, huh Trixie? Got a thing for musicians too?”

  It’s impossible to miss the derision that laces his tone and wonder why it’s directed at me. I’m not quite sure how to answer him, what to say, because while he may be the spitting image of Hawkin, he makes me uneasy.

  “Who the hell is this Trixie?” It’s Gizmo now coming into the foyer, and I’m thankful for him unknowingly breaking up the tension. Although I don’t see Hawkin’s shoulders ease at all. I wish I could see his face, try to read his expression.

  Vince’s chuckle and shake of his head pulls me from my thoughts. He slaps Gizmo on the chest. “Always late to the party dude and a few brews short of a six-pack.”

  “Huh?” I hear him say as Vince pushes him back into the kitchen but doesn’t follow. He turns and leans his shoulder against the doorjamb, arms crossed over his chest and his eyebrows raised as if to say continue to the two brothers.

  “Where were you? And don’t say with Mom,” Hawkin grits the words out.

  “Yeah, sorry about that, I got sidetracked. Didn’t make it—”

  “No shit,” Hawkin says stepping toward him, agitation in his voice and anger reflected in his posture. “Hard to show up when they didn’t call you in the first place. After everything …” He rolls his shoulders as he tries to rein in his temper. “Can’t you just follow through with a promise one fucking time, Hunter?” His voice is low and threatening. Vince’s eyes toggle back and forth between the two of them as he assesses the situation.

  “Relax,” Hunter says with a roll of his eyes and a shake of his head as if the comment is irrelevant. His facetious attitude is a complete contrast to the humorless ones of Hawkin and Vince. “I’ll hold my end of the bargain, brother.” He says the last word with a disdained sarcasm that even ruffles my feathers. Hunter’s eyes track over to me and stop. “You can always ensure that I will though by sharing.”

  “Come again?” The retort is off my tongue before I even think it through. If he’s saying what I think he’s saying he can move right along.

  Hawkin is in Hunter’s face within a split second of my comment, hand fisted in the front of his shirt, nose to nose. “Leave her out of the bullshit between us! You had your chance and blew it. That’s on you. You want something I have again, you best figure out how to get your shit straightened out and get it yourself. Your second chances are wearing thin here, brother,” Hawkin says, mimicking Hunter’s tone, his voice quiet, yet the steel in his attitude more than obvious.

  There is a tense few seconds where they remain toe to toe, their unspoken battle filling up the room, until Vince steps forward and grips Hawkin’s shoulder. At first he resists Vince trying to force them apart and then relents.

  “It’s best you leave, Hunt,” Vince says with a cluck of his tongue. “You’re a bit outnumbered here, if you catch my drift. Door’s that way.” He gestures behind him, not backing down while Hawkin stalks down the length of the hallway, hands laced on the back of his neck, face grimaced in restraint.

  “Ah, so cute you have your bodyguard to make sure you don’t get hurt,” Hunter sneers like a child.

  “You’ve worn out your welcome, and I don’t have any promises that I’ve made keeping me from plowing my fist in your face,” Vince says with a shrug of his shoulders that’s anything but apologetic. “I’d love nothing more than for you to give me a reason….”

  Hunter nods, teeth biting his bottom lip to fight the smirk playing there, like all of this is humorous to him. He looks over to where I’m frozen with uncertainty over what to do, and lifts his chin.

  “You’ll learn soon that these guys aren’t worth your time. I look forward to seeing you again. Soon.” The shuffling of Hawke’s feet on the wood floor instantly falls silent at the same time Hunter lifts his eyebrows, smirk bordering arrogant, before turning and heading toward the front door like he hasn’t a care in the world. “You guys need to loosen the fuck up in this place,” he throws over his shoulder as he strides out of the house, his mocking laughter fading with him.

  The front door slams, but no one moves. Despite Hunter’s departure, the tension still vibrates off the walls. I’m so uncomfortable, unsure what to do, but all I know is that the look on Hawkin’s face calls me to comfort him. But I don’t react right away. I barely know this man and as much as I want to fulfill my inherent need to soothe our ache—a quick fuck in the bed
room upstairs might fix him for a little bit—but it won’t make me feel very good.

  “Sorry about that,” Vince says, breaking his stare away from Hawkin’s and turning on me, trying to relieve the tension. “Brotherly love.” He smiles, but it’s strained and never reaches his eyes. “Will you excuse us a moment?” he asks but is already walking toward Hawkin before I can respond.

  As Vince approaches him, I wonder what the hell that was all about and what has Hawkin so agitated that he won’t meet my eyes. They stand face-to-face, their harsh whispers echoing off the wood floor, but only a few words at a time come back to me. And they are not enough for me to piece together the conversation.

  “I’m Rocket.” The voice startles me to the point that I gasp because I was so focused on them that I never noticed Rocket standing in the doorway.

  My eyes flash up to his, and I smile. “Hi, I’m Quinlan,” I offer, unsure what else to say as Hawkin’s temper escalates, their words unmistakable now.

  “I know what I promised, Vince,” Hawke shouts.

  “You know he’s going to take what he wants just to fuck you over anyway,” Vince says, glancing our way and then back to Hawkin before saying something I can’t hear.

  “Sorry about all of this,” Rocket says, motioning to the two of them and sensing my discomfort. “Those two go way back. They’re close. Closer than Hunt and Hawke are.”

  “They’re not close?” I pry, asking Rocket what I should be asking Hawkin myself but given his aversion in the car to questions about him, I know he’ll avoid answering.

  Rocket’s laugh is low and cavalier. “Do they look like it?” His sarcasm is overtaken by Hawkin barking “Enough” to Vince.

  “You’re dangling a motherfucking carrot in front of him, Hawke,” Vince yells and then blows out a breath in frustration. “If he can’t have X, then he’s gonna take Y.”

  “Like you have to remind me. I’ve got it handled. Don’t bring it up again.” Hawkin slams a hand down against the console next to him, the sound echoing through the room. He stalks toward me, anger vibrating off him, and I have a feeling it’s from a combination of Vince and Hunter.

  “Give me a minute,” he growls as he passes me without meeting my eyes, his angst palpable. I watch him retreat down a hallway and when I look back, Rocket has his eyebrows raised and a look of resignation on his handsome face.

  “Welcome to Bent,” Rocket says with an exasperated laugh.

  I smile awkwardly at him, feeling completely out of place after the transition from making out to being witness to the familial argument. Do I go? Do I stay? Rocket motions for me to follow him into the now empty kitchen where we both take seats at the island.

  We talk for a few minutes about random stuff. How the band rents a house when they’re writing an album because it allows the four of them to work all hours, pushes them to be more creative when they can’t leave, and helps build their overall bond. He’s telling me a story about Gizmo and an accidental drum mishap when Hawkin interrupts us.

  “Quin?” Rocket falls silent as I look over to Hawkin, stress etched in the lines of his tanned face. The look calls on the mothering instinct I didn’t think I possessed to soothe it all away. He nods his head over his shoulder, and I thank Rocket while I stand to follow Hawkin.

  He doesn’t say anything to me, just leads so that I’ll follow him out to the front porch, where I assume he’s wanting some privacy away from the rest of the guys, although I’m unsure why he’s choosing out here to have it.

  We stand there for a moment before he runs a hand through his hair and blows out an exasperated breath. “Look, I’m sorry about all of that, that you had to see internal band bullshit,” he says, confusing me since as far as I know Hunter isn’t part of the band.

  “It’s okay. It happens.” I twist my lips, hands linking to prevent myself from reaching out and running a hand down his arm.

  “Nah, it’s bullshit and I’m sorry,” he says again, meeting my eyes. Something flickers through them and I can’t quite catch what they say. “I’ve got some stuff to do though, so uh, thanks for the ride.”

  I guess it was indifference since I’m getting a thanks for the ride and nothing else. I stare at him for a moment, although he’s not meeting my gaze, and try to figure out why I basically just got downgraded from girl he wants to have hot sex with to one only good enough to be his chauffeur. And it’s not that I expect the hot sex right now, that mood is done and gone, but I don’t expect to be brushed off without another thought either.

  I have to be wrong here. I still feel the heat of his hands on my body and the taste of his kiss on my lips but right now he’s as closed off from me as my brother would be.

  “Hawke?” I prevent myself from saying anything more and sounding like a needy female … but at the same time I’m confused, trying not to be hurt but failing miserably.

  He licks his lips, and averts his eyes before stepping back so that his physical distance emphasizes the emotional distance he’s just established between us. “See you at the next lecture.”

  “Did I miss something here?” I can’t help it, have to ask.

  He shakes his head. “Nope. Just got work to do. That’s all.”

  Our eyes meet, asking questions our mouths won’t answer. The silence stretches until the brush-off I thought I was mistaken about is more than obvious. “Mm-kay,” I say as I walk down the first few steps, trying to hold fast to my dignity. And I must be so used to watching movies where the guy calls after the girl when she walks away because I purposefully walk slowly to my car.

  But he never calls after me.

  Never says my name to let me know what he’s thinking or that he feels sorry for the whiplash of emotions. I climb in my car without another word from him and head out of the Hollywood Hills, rejection bitter on my tongue and confusion forefront in my mind. The afternoon was a strong affirmation why I shouldn’t believe in happily-ever-afters because let’s face it, the girl rarely gets the guy in the end.

  Chapter 8

  HAWKIN

  The Jack and Coke quenches my thirst but not my anger.

  Or the sexual frustration.

  Quinlan. The thought of her has my hands banging Giz’s sticks harder and harder on the mid-toms. I suck at playing the drums but there is something about them and the unsteady rhythm I attempt to create that helps me when I’m stressed. Plus the physicality of it drives me to think only of the notes—nothing else—and fuck if I don’t need to not think right now.

  No Hunter and his bullshit disappearing act with my car doing who the fuck knows what.

  No Benji and the lectures on my voice mail that I need to come clean and turn my brother in. No now that I’ve pleaded, I can’t change my mind or else I’ll perjure myself, and we’ll both end up in jail.

  No Vince telling me on one side that I need to keep this Quinlan shit under lock and key so that Hunter doesn’t try to screw up this part of my life, and out of the other side of his mouth teasing me to let him fuck this up so that I can lose and get that first heart-shaped tattoo of idiocy like the rest of the guys.

  No lecture where I stumble through stories to try to make it meaningful and memorable somehow for the students flocking in just because I’m Hawkin Play, the lead singer of Bent, rather than because I actually have something good to say. And oddly, it’s quite rewarding, regardless of why they are there, to have someone actually listening to my words. Crazy how shit happens.

  And lastly when I’m pounding the fuck out of the drums, there’s no Quinlan tempting me with that hot body, smart mouth, and unaffected nonchalance. I take that back. She was most definitely affected. No doubt I could have seen just how affected if I’d gotten her upstairs.

  Talk about a two for one: sex that I have no doubt would have been stellar and cinching the win with Vince and our bet in record time. Well, the first part of the bet anyway. His proof can wait.

  Shit, I see Sledge’s tattoo parlor in our near future for him. So why in the h
ell did I not so subtly kick her out like I did?

  Because you’re a pansy-ass motherfucker, that’s why. I hit the high-tom harder, pissed at myself for the necessary brush-off. I’d tried to appease Vince and his fucked-up theory that Hunter would go after her just because I’m seeing her. Little does Hunter know the reasons behind my pursuit of Quin, and that’s for the best, or Vince is right, he’d purposely try to be part of it.

  And truth be told, I fucking wanted to drag her up the stairs to my bedroom, lay her out naked, and have my every which way with her. Fuck her like there’s no tomorrow so that I could get all this pent-up shit out: anger, frustration, irritation, validation—all of it.

  But no way in hell would that be fair to her. Being rough in the sack is one thing—the sting of a hand in a spank, the bite of a flogger—I’m all for it, but being aggressive because you’re pissed off at the fucking world and the hand you were dealt isn’t cool. There may be pleasure in pain but it’s gotta come with the right motivation or you’re just a sick fuck.

  Hell if it didn’t make me feel like shit to push her away, though. Partially to keep Vince at bay and his asinine claims about Hunter being vindictive, but more so because my balls ached so goddamn bad it was painful to send her off when they were begging for her to come and play.

  I groan at the thought, the drums drowning out the sound and my shoulders starting to scream from the hour I’ve been doing this, trying to purge the need to punch my hand through the wall.

  Because broken drywall means a hurt hand. And a hurt hand means I can’t play the guitar.

  But muscles screaming from the workout does nothing to abate the goddamn ache in my balls from wanting her.

  I hit the last drum, sweat trickling down my forehead, and open my eyes, expecting to see Vince there but not sure if I would after we got into it earlier. He’s a moody fucker and likes to dwell on things when we fight, so I’m surprised he’s sitting at the soundboard, beer in one hand, feet up on an opposing chair and indifference in his expression.